


If I Loved You Less

by mydogwatson



Series: One Fixed Point: 2020 Advent Stories [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Lavender scented bath, M/M, Most excellent mustard, Victorian, progress - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27965963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: Holmes is home alone and has some thoughts.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: One Fixed Point: 2020 Advent Stories [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035588
Comments: 31
Kudos: 92





	If I Loved You Less

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Когда бы я любил вас меньше](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28551456) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> Firstly, thanks to everyone concerned about my health. Thank you. No more migraine today, although I am moving a bit slowly. I did want to get this posted today, because the rest of my week is going to be hellishly busy. But if I fall behind, I will catch up, never fear. And I also promise to reply to all your lovely comments.
> 
> Anyway, read and enjoy!

If I loved you less, I might be able to   
talk about it more.  
-Austen, J.

I arrived at Baker Street as a miserable, sodden creature, much in want of a blazing fire, a pot of tea, and a kind word from my boon companion. The day had been a miserable failure, with all my efforts at apprehending Collins, the notorious stamp counterfeiter, gaining me nothing. He was leading me on a merry dance indeed and my patience had worn thin. Not to mention the cold rain that had been falling all day, Finally, I snapped irritably at the hapless Lestrade and found a growler to take me home.

Where, indeed, I found a most satisfactory fire blazing away and by the time I had shed my wet garments and donned my dressing gown and Prince Albert slippers, there was a cheerful landlady bustling up the stairs with hot tea and some sandwiches. Roast beef and mustard. All of which was very nice, but there was one vital piece of home that was missing.

Mrs Hudson, as always, supplied the answer to my [regrettably somewhat tetchy] query. “Oh, Dr Watson had a telegram from an old acquaintance, a Doctor Henry. The poor man fell ill and needed someone to take over his surgery for the day. You know our Watson; he immediately departed for Brick Lane.”

I sat down at the table, with my mood declining evermore. “Does he have no old acquaintances who practice in a respectable neighbourhood?” I complained.

She poured me tea and rather forcefully put a sandwich on the plate. “He said to be sure you ate when you arrived.”

“He has an annoying obsession with nutrition, “ I muttered, before taking a bite of the sandwich.

“Oh, pish posh,” she replied, heading for the door. “You should have a hot bath after your tea. It might improve your mood.”

Cheerful people can be quite annoying sometimes, but I said nothing, because Mrs Hudson was a treasure; women like her were the backbone of the Empire. And she did make a nice sandwich. I ate the second one and finished the tea, but there was still no sign of Watson.

Very well. I would have a bath.

A short time later, I slipped into the porcelain tub and relaxed in the hot water, to which I had added a bit of the expensive scented oil I had been gifted by my brother. [As often with his gifts, the message to be taken from this one was a bit mixed, but I ignored those under-currents.] At the moment, I preferred to remember Watson’s sotto voce comment at the time. _”A secret sybarite, is your brother?”_

I smiled at my toes in the water. The heat and the faint scent of lavender were relaxing my tensed muscles. And, damned our landlady’s words, it was improving my mood.

But I was still missing Watson.

Since the morning he had kissed my fingers, things had settled a bit between us. He touched me more, easily, off-handedly and I had tried to reciprocate, although such things do not come easily to me. For him, however, I wanted to try.

After a time, I took up the cloth and began to wash, starting at my feet.

Which I had always felt were too big, almost ungainly looking.

I added some more hot water to the tub and began on my legs. Although slender, they served me well. Washing my thighs brought Watson’s legs to mind and I passed a pleasant interlude with those thoughts.

Skipping my nether parts for the moment, I washed my arms and chest, whilst my treacherous brain wandered about the subject of one John Watson. And his body.

I had lingered so long that my fingertips were starting to wrinkle.

Those very same fingers that John Watson had kissed .

It seemed prudent to wash the rest of myself quickly and efficiently before the situation grew delicate.

I had donned a clean nightshirt and my dressing gown before I heard the sound of Watson arriving home and being accosted downstairs by Mrs Hudson. No doubt tea and sandwiches were being offered and accepted. But I went into the sitting room and poured two glasses of fine port. Then I sat in my chair to await him.

I wondered if we might actually have a conversation this evening. I was a man who had always been able to express myself most volubly on any subject. Even as a small boy, according to Mycroft. But speaking of my feelings for John Watson seems beyond me. They matter too much.

If I remain a coward, however, can we ever move forward?

Watson came into the room. He looked at me and smiled, before saying, “You are quite rosy from your bath.” He picked up the snifter and lifted it towards me. I echoed the gesture with my own and we both swallowed some port.

The look we shared then was, somehow, as heated as my bath had been. I seemed to feel my face grow even rosier.

I have done some courageous things in my lifetime and it would be a false modesty to say otherwise. But without a doubt, the bravest thing I have ever done was to stand, take those few steps separating us, and bend just enough so that my lips could reach his.

This first kiss tasted immediately of the deep red port we’d had, of raspberry, cinnamon, perhaps a hint of chocolate. And then of the cheap shag from the pipe he had clearly smoked in the carriage that had brought him home. And, finally, there was a hint of something else that I could not quite name, but which I feared could become quite addictive.

And then we heard Mrs Hudson on the stairs.

When she entered, I was back in my chair and Watson was already at the table, rubbing his hands together enthusiastically. “Oh, Mrs Hudson, you are a treasure! Dare I hope for beef with some of your most excellent mustard?”

I sipped more port and watched him and loved him.

He looked past Mrs Hudson and winked at me.

**


End file.
